


A Way to Feel Noticed

by thedisenchanteddaisy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-29 16:06:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11444331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisenchanteddaisy/pseuds/thedisenchanteddaisy
Summary: Molly's Diary; written how I believe she'd write one. (A stream of consciousness.) I am still unsure as to whether or not this will have more than one entry, but the first entry relates to why Molly's day was so hard during The Final Problem (S4, E3). I'm still new when it comes to writing like this, so I do hope it won't be too abysmal.





	1. After the Call

**Author's Note:**

> This mentions death; it doesn't get too graphic, but I still figure I should mention it. Enjoy!

# A Way to Feel Noticed

## Entry 1

Hello, Diary.  
I suppose I’m writing because it's the only way I can say what I feel instead of having someone pry it out of me? Not to say I don’t mind the prying, it can show you someone cares. Well not cares, necessarily, but it definitely shows that they notice you. That he notices you. He certainly likes to notice things about me that are downright hideous, doesn’t he? It’s like he sees me as some giant warning label in a secondary school’s chemistry class. I suppose it means we balance each other out in some ways, like chemicals. Like blood. Blood needs the proper amounts of acidic and alkaline compounds to function correctly and the way I see it, that's us. I mean he seems to see me as basic and in that way he’s rather acidic. I find my own sense of balance in the idea that we could work out due to balance. Work. That we could work. Why did I decide to write this in pen? I don’t like scribbling things out; it just lets the ink bleed onto the next page. It lets flaws linger and look worse than they would if you just let yourself have them and not act perfect all the time with your cheekbones and your long coats and. I wish I had white out. White out is like a breakup. You know things aren’t working out and you separate the words you want to remember from the words you wrote. I guess I’m just stressed out from the day; Sherlock asked me to say that I love him. I know it was for an experiment; he said it was for an experiment, but why? Why would you sound so desperate? Why would you make it seem as if you don’t know what you already knew? You figure out everything else out about me, so why did you need the proof? Where is your heart? I’m going to stop writing now; I don’t think it makes me feel better. I think I feel worse. But at least someone listened to me. 

 

Back. Couldn’t handle some of the silence and decided to write some more. Today wasn’t all that easy, you know. Apart from him? No, he was just the icing on the cake. Somehow, everything that could go wrong today, went wrong today. First, I was late for work because of a jerk in Volvo. Don't even want to get into that. Why does it seem the nicer the car, the colder the person? Anyways, I got to work, and saw who was on the slab today. A childhood friend. Her name was Blanche. We used to be neighbors as kids. I remember she came over the nights her dad would go out of town for work; she would have the house to herself, but she was young. Nobody likes being cooped up in their house all day as a little kid, so we’d have sleepovers. Her hair was long and blonde and beautiful which only made seeing her worse. You could tell she was being yanked by her hair for a bit, before they took scissors to what must have been a messy ponytail due to the differences in lengths and the choppiness of it. There were bruises all over her body; bruises and hickeys. They found her barely clothed in a red light district. I didn’t know she was in danger, but she could have told me. I wouldn’t have judged her or laughed at the way she had to make a living. I would have helped. I could have begged Sherlock to help and if that didn't work, I knew when I left 221B Baker Street, John would back me up. I could have helped, so why? Why didn’t I get to know? Why didn’t I get to help? Why did I have to look at the lifeless body of someone I used to stay up all night talking to and braiding her hair? It made me cry. I’ve never liked crying at work; so many uncomfortable coworkers try to comfort you, but you can hear others murmur about you. They say you’re unprofessional and unfit. Today has been a horrible day. I don’t think I want to write this anymore. I think I’m just going to go to sleep. Goodnight Diary. I hope nobody ever reads you.


	2. Unopened Bottles of Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn't take long to get over Tom, but memories tend to pop up when you least expect it.

# A Way to Feel Noticed

## Entry 2

Hello Diary,  


It's Molly again. I know I don't confide in you often enough, but if someone were to find this, I think I'd look much more broken than I feel. I never liked the feeling of being pitied; I've had it too much in life, having fancied a man who finds me dull. I just think I'd like to get my thoughts down today. I want a fresh start. I've been cleaning all morning, so I've decided I should take a break and write for a moment.  
I've been letting my time with Tom fade. Memories aren't exactly my favorite nowadays, but sometimes they just pop up and you're just defenseless to them. Like the unopened bottle of wine I got from my parents to celebrate my engagement or the polaroids under my bed that I couldn't bear to part with. It isn't that I still love him, but I still love the memories we made; I only wonder what he's up to now. I guess I'm just in a mood; listening to music from a movie I watched a few years ago isn't helping. It's one I watched with Sherlock; it can be so hard to find a movie he'll watch without talking or being irritated by. He hasn't talked to me since the call. I guess he doesn't like the idea of me anymore. Another mystery solved: "She loves me." Maybe I should move on, but I can't stop feeling the phantom pains of ex-lovers and never-to-bes. It seems like every love I have is a dead end. 

First, there was Jim. He spoke softly and had a wonderful sense of humor. He seemed to enjoy my stories of work and of Sherlock Holmes. I loved him for his charm and his energy, but it wouldn't last. He turned out to be a psychopath, enamored by death, and having the upper hand. He was in love with the idea of beating Sherlock at his own game and had a terrifying sadistic streak. I fancied a man capable of destroying anything in his path.

Then, there was Tom, he was witty and he had a good sense of style...but who was I kidding? He was my way of coping; he was a man who could almost be Sherlock, but wasn't ever quite enough to fill the void in me. It was living a fantasy that you knew would never be quite right. He never understood me like Sherlock did; he never excited me. Who was I trying to kid? I couldn't be happy living a life with a man I wished was someone else. It wasn't right of me. Best to leave before I lived someone else's life, being a me that Tom could love, but never Sherlock.

It's always been Sherlock hasn't it? He has always been there, but out of reach. It's lonely to love someone like that; to know that it will always be one-way and that nothing will become of it. But there are always these moments where he lets me in for just a moment; these short moments that you don't realize until much later that he was being compassionate in his strange little way. Like the week my cat died, when he noticed the little bits of fur that would sometimes end up on my jeans disappeared little by little and I was using more makeup to cover my eyes, puffy from crying. He said something about animals being a distraction and to find companionship elsewhere; that humans are more useful and last longer. It felt like an insult, until I realized he was telling me to confide in people, or to at least get out more. He has these rude ways of trying to show he cares by mentioning details about yourself or giving compliments thats hurt your feelings. Maybe I'm always going to just be Molly to him, but maybe that's okay. You can't always be someone's other half; especially not to someone who seems complete to begin with. I'll just have to enjoy the time I have with him, if he ever decides to talk to me again. I should get back to cleaning. 

Maybe I'll open that bottle of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what music I envisioned Molly listening to as she wrote this entry, it was the OST of Her. It has the most hauntingly nostalgic feeling to it and its a movie that I could see her and Sherlock watching.  
> I don't know if this sounded enough like Molly, but I hope it did. I haven't felt in the right state of mind for writing in a while, so hopefully its alright!  
> Have a lovely day!


End file.
